


Limits

by romanticalgirl



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every man has them</p>
            </blockquote>





	Limits

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/)**nolivingman** for the beta
> 
> Originally posted 9-18-06

Lancelot knows exactly how hard and how far he can push Arthur. He has made a study of knowing his enemies, and for all his respect and concern for his knights, Arthur is still a Roman and, therefore, an enemy. A different kind of Roman, true – and had you told Lancelot 15 years ago that he would know there were different kinds of Romans, he would have laughed at you; might still today - but a Roman nonetheless.

So he knows what words to use to goad his Commander, knows what remarks will cut and draw blood and knows what is too far. But today he is wet and muddy and bloody and their fool’s errand has cost them two knights, four horses and all of Lancelot’s patience with Rome, with Britain and with Arthur.

He slams his saddle hard on the rack and then proceeds to hand off his horse to one of the stable boys, refusing to lay hands on the animal lest any of his anger find itself laid at the feet of anyone other than its intended target. His glare alone is enough to send the boy scurrying into the stall with the wet and worn animal, and Lancelot leaves him to it and makes his way toward Arthur’s quarters, his stride sure and determined.

Arthur doesn’t look up from his papers as Lancelot slams the door behind him. Barely controlled fury finds its freedom and Lancelot strides over to the table and sends it tumbling to the side, Arthur’s precious papers scattering all over the stone and dirt floor. “You will look at me.”

Arthur’s eyes settle on Lancelot’s and Lancelot can’t help but smirk at the reaction in them, the darkness that filters through the bright green. He does not know what he looks like, but can imagine, having seen himself reflected in the black and bloodied faces of his fellow knights.

“You will look at me, Arthur.”

Arthur raises his chin and his eyes change again as he lets his gaze slowly drift down Lancelot’s body, appraising. Lancelot knows this look, saw it the first time he and Arthur met, when he was barely a man and the new Commander, older than him by a few years, had looked down at his knights from astride his white horse.

“What do you see?”

Arthur settles his gaze somewhere over Lancelot’s shoulder. “I see you are still alive.”

The fury flames back to life and Lancelot’s booted foot makes contact with Arthur’s chest, sending him and his chair sprawling backwards, shattering the frail wood. “Alive?” Lancelot snarls, his teeth bared as he moves over Arthur, the sharp flick of his head sending a spray of water and mud across Arthur’s quarters. “Yes. Alive. Which is more than I can say for Cador and Hoel. More than I can say for their horses and the other two that fell in battle and more,” he feels the fury go as cold as icy rage and pulls his swords free from their sheaths. The swords bite into Arthur’s neck, the tips no doubt sticky with old blood as they rest on Arthur’s skin, the flesh welling up around them, though not broken. “And more, Commander, than I can say for you.”

“And what will killing me achieve, Lancelot?” There is no fear in his voice, which sparks Lancelot’s fury again, and he feels the flames licking at him. “Will it bring them back? Will it avenge them? Will it grant you peace?”

“It will get me killed and out of this place, out of this life. It will end this.” He pulls the swords back, his tone heavy with defeat. “Our lives are worth nothing to you. We are expendable. Fodder for your war.”

“That is not how I see you.”

“No?” One of Lancelot’s swords is again at Arthur’s throat. “We are human to you, are we? Not mere dogs to put at your gates.”

“You know you are more than that to me.”

“Then why do you send my brothers out to die? Send us out as if we mean nothing.”

“I have my orders.”

“Your precious orders,” Lancelot nods, his voice cool as he shifts his weight, his sword slowly piercing Arthur’s skin as his lip curls in a sneer. “And what do those orders say, Arthur?” Blood wells against Arthur’s skin, against the blade. “Send the animals out to kill or be killed? Send them out to die?”

“Lancelot…” Arthur’s voice is soft.

“What about me, Arthur? What do you want to say to me before you die?” His grip shifts and the sword slips deeper. Lancelot takes a deep breath and blinks hard. “Say it.”

“I understand.”

“NO!” Lancelot jerks the sword back and throws it across the room, listening to it clatter across the stone. “You do _not_ get to do that. I am not some primitive Woad. You will not steal victory from me!”

He turns and kicks the shattered remains of Arthur’s chair, scattering the wood across the room. He stumbles to Arthur’s bed and slumps down on it, burying his head in his hands.

Arthur tugs his tunic over his head and presses the graying fabric against the crimson that runs down his throat. “It is not just you.” He gets to his feet, swaying slightly. “It is not just you who mourns their deaths.”

“You mourn, do you?” Lancelot’s voice is bitter and bruised, older than his years. “Offer their souls up to your God?”

Arthur moves to sit beside Lancelot staring at the ground. “I offer anything that would grant them peace.”

“Peace.” Lancelot spits the word. “What do you Romans know of peace?” He gets to his feet and retrieves his sword. It had been chipped in battle and now is far worse, so he lets it clatter once more to the floor. “We are your guard dogs, given swords for teeth and bleached white bones for our trouble.”

“Lancelot.”

He shakes his head. “There is no peace, Arthur. No victory. Just another battle to be fought until one day we’ll all be dead and you’ll have to raid more villages, steal more sons in the name of Rome.” He sheathes the sword and rakes a hand through his wild curls. “I will not die in the name of Rome, Arthur.” He looks at his Commander and sees not his friend, not his lover. “Even if I have to kill you to assure it.”

“If you fall in battle, my friend, I will lay myself on your swords.”

Lancelot nods, the unfamiliar burn of tears in his eyes. “You should have that cut tended to.”

“I will. And you should clean up and rest. We will bury your brothers tomorrow.”

His soft laugh hurts him, hurts Arthur if his flinch at the sound is any indication. “We will. And every tomorrow after.”  



End file.
